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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938926">You May Call It Violence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eione/pseuds/Eione'>Eione</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bondage, Choking, Cunnilingus, F/F, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Kneeling, Manhandling, Object Insertion, Unaroused Victim, background Helen/Paris, past Oenone/Paris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:26:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938926</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eione/pseuds/Eione</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris is dying from a poisoned arrow. The only one who can save him is his abandoned wife Oenone, who he left for Helen. In exchange for her help, Oenone demands to experience Helen's charms for herself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Helen of Troy/Oenone (Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Nonconathon 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You May Call It Violence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/gifts">ancslove</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Oenone is out gathering herbs when she sees a group coming towards her from the direction of Troy. They are moving slowly, clustered around something in their midst. A body, perhaps, carried on a litter.</p><p>It would not be strange for them to bring a wounded soldier to her, or someone who is sick, to seek her wisdom and healing. She often heals the shepherds from snakebite or illness and asks no more than a bit of honeycomb or a soft fleece. But her visitors this time are no shepherds; sunlight flashes on their armor from far across the plain.</p><p>She is uneasy, though she can’t say why. She realizes she has crushed the delicate leaves in her hands; they give off a pungent medicinal scent, mixing with the scent of sun-warmed grass around her.</p><p>The procession is closer now. She can see the horsehair crests of their helmets tossing in the breeze. These are not common soldiers; their leader has a golden necklace, and some of the others have a silver sword-hilt or bracelets set with gems. There could be many wounded men, and disease spreads easily in a crowded army camp or a city at war, as the Greeks have learned to their cost. But something whispers in her ear, the voice of prophecy: the man they are bringing to her is not a stranger, but one she knows well. Better than anyone, once.</p><p>She lets the tattered herbs fall from her hands to the ground and awaits them.</p><p>When they reach her, the leader gestures to his men and they carefully set down the litter. It takes only a glance at the wounded man for her to know his face, softened by rich living and made pale by pain. Paris son of Priam, who was once her husband before he set eyes on Helen of Sparta. A thousand painful feelings surge back at once, like a river overflowing a dam.</p><p>Their leader hands his spear to his second and takes off his crested helmet, tucking it under his arm. She thinks he is one of Paris’s brothers or possibly brothers-in-law, a prince of Troy. She doesn’t care to remember his name. She makes herself unclench her fists. She will at least hear what he has to say.</p><p>He clears his throat and steps forward. “O divine nymph, daughter of the river Cebren—”</p><p>Oenone cuts him off with an abrupt gesture. “Spare the compliments,” she says. “Tell me plainly why you have come.”</p><p>He shifts uncomfortably. “Paris is badly wounded. Philoctetes shot him with a poisoned arrow, he who bears the bow of Hercules. None of our healers can stop the poison from spreading. Queen Hecuba has left offerings at all the shrines of the gods, but in vain. And then Helenus, who has the gift of prophecy, said that the only one who could help Paris was Oenone, the nymph of Mount Ida.”</p><p>Oenone goes closer to the litter. The soldiers shuffle awkwardly out of her way, like fat doves that spy a cat but don’t want to leave the grain they’re feasting on. Paris is unconscious, his head lolling to one side. It takes the briefest examination to see that he is dying of the poison. But he will last a few hours, even without her help.</p><p>She turns decisively back towards their leader. “If you want me to help him,” she says, “let the daughter of Tyndareus come to ask me herself.”</p><p>They have a frantic conversation in whispers, which she politely pretends to ignore. The leader gestures to one of his men, who dashes off back towards Troy.</p><p>He swallows. “I have sent for Helen, lady. If she will come.”</p><p>“What,” Oenone says bitterly, “does the Spartan woman not care enough to save her lover’s life?”</p><p>He looks away and doesn’t answer.</p><p>The sun is hot overhead. She can see sweat beading on the foreheads of the Trojan soldiers. And Paris, who is sick with poison, lying there so helplessly—Oenone feels a small surge of tenderness and hates herself for it.</p><p>She relents enough to say, “He may wait inside.” She leads the way to the small but tidy hut where she sleeps and stores her healing supplies. Paris can at least rest in the shade.</p><p>The soldiers carry his litter into the hut and set it down where she indicates. She gestures for the soldiers to wait outside and they hastily obey. Perhaps they fear a nymph’s curse and don’t want to provoke her anger any more than they already have.</p><p>Oenone wets a cloth and wipes Paris’s forehead, then carefully trickles a little water between his cracked lips. But she will do nothing more for him; not yet. Not unless Helen begs for it on her knees, humbles herself before Oenone as Oenone’s own heart has been humbled.</p><p>At last Priam’s son-or-son-in-law reenters the hut to tell her that Helen has arrived.</p><p>When Oenone steps outside, she sees Helen carefully climbing out of a closed litter. Of course Helen would never risk getting dust on the hem of her fine robe by walking through the fields and over the hills (as Oenone walked with Paris so many times on the slopes of Mount Ida).</p><p>Helen smooths down the folds of her robe and paces forward to stand before Oenone. Helen is resplendent in a purple robe embroidered with gold. Golden bracelets like snakes adorn her wrists; gold and jewels shine at her neck and her ears. Even her delicate sandals are gilded. When she gracefully pushes back her thin veil, her eyes are outlined with kohl, her lips red with ochre, her clustering curls sleek with scented oil.</p><p>Oenone has never hated anyone so much in her life.</p><p>Oenone had no gold and jewels, she reminds herself, no Egyptian perfumes, when Paris first met her roaming below Mount Ida. When he told her she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, that he could desire no other.</p><p>Helen bows her head, managing to make even the humble gesture seem graceful. “You asked me to come, daughter of Cebren, and I am here. Will you not heal Lord Paris? I know he was once dear to you.”</p><p>“He was dear to me,” Oenone says softly, “before you stole him away. You had a husband, and he had a wife. But that did not stop you.”</p><p>Helen lowers her eyes as if grieved. Even her eyelids are dusted with blue and gold; Oenone has the sudden impulse to touch them and see if the color would smear. “I cannot change the past, Oenone. But surely you will not let Paris die?”</p><p>“Kneel,” Oenone says sharply. “Kneel and beg me on your knees.”</p><p>Helen kneels. Something dark and eager stirs in Oenone at the sight. It isn’t enough; she wants to press Helen’s lovely face into the dust, dishevel those artful curls.</p><p>“Please,” Helen says, raising her wide dark eyes to Oenone. “Please, lady, I beg you. Heal Paris, since you alone are able to do it.”</p><p>Oenone is almost captivated despite herself. Helen truly is very beautiful. She is silent for a long moment, while Helen remains on her knees and the soldiers shift their weight uneasily.</p><p>“What will you do,” Oenone asks finally, “in order to save Paris? What price will you pay?”</p><p>“I will do anything,” Helen says earnestly. “If you wish for fine gifts, your hut will be filled with gold and silver, ivory and finely-woven cloth. Whatever treasure you desire will be yours.”</p><p>Oenone is silent for a moment longer. Then she nods. To the soldiers’ leader, she says, “Leave Paris with me. You may return in three days. I will tend to him.”</p><p>Helen rises to her feet. “Not you,” Oenone says shortly. “You will stay.”</p><p>The leader hesitates and gives a dubious glance at Helen in her finery. Perhaps he thinks that Helen will be useless at treating wounds. No matter; Oenone doesn’t mean to allow her near Paris’s sickbed.</p><p>“If you wish Paris to live,” Oenone says calmly, “then you will do as I say. No one is to approach this place for three days. I will do what is necessary. She will remain with me.” She wonders for a moment if Helen will object, but Helen only smiles as graciously as a queen conferring her favor.</p><p>That seems to resolve his doubts. He bows and turns away, fitting his helmet back onto his head. The soldiers march off in formation, taking Helen’s empty litter with then. Oenone watches until they are out of sight. And then she is alone with Helen, in all her glittering beauty.</p><p>Oenone swallows. “If you wish Paris to live, you will obey me for the next three days. You will do everything I wish, no matter what it is.” She hesitates a moment. “You will submit to me,” she says deliberately, “as you submit to Paris in his bed.”</p><p>Helen looks down, then glances up at Oenone through her lashes. “If that is your price for healing Paris,” she says, “I will do it.”</p><p>Oenone takes one step toward her. She can smell Helen’s perfume. She reaches out, sinks her hand in Helen’s beautiful curls and twists, until her grip is painfully tight. Helen gasps and raises her hands as if to fend her off. Oenone pulls Helen’s head back, her face raised to look at Oenone. Helen is a few inches shorter, she notes with satisfaction. Helen may be a god’s daughter, if the stories are true, but she is not an immortal herself.</p><p>She pulls Helen by the hair, dragging her closer. “Have you forgotten so soon?” Oenone murmurs. “You promised to submit to me.”</p><p>“Yes,” Helen gasps, “only—” She tries to pull free, with helpless fluttering gestures of her hands.</p><p>Oenone thinks she likes seeing her struggle. She releases Helen, who staggers a little before regaining her balance. A few dark hairs cling to Oenone’s hand, torn from Helen’s head. She shakes them off, letting them flutter to the ground. “Kiss me,” she demands. “Show me how you charmed Paris and made him lose all his wits.”</p><p>Helen obediently takes Oenone’s face between her hands. Her fingers are cool and smooth. And then Helen’s red mouth is on hers. Helen kisses her again and again, caressing Oenone’s lips with her own. She kisses without the heat of passion, but with confidence and practiced skill, and the feeling of her mouth pressing in and moving away is very sweet. Her tongue slides into Oenone’s mouth, and Oenone lets her do it. Oenone seizes Helen roughly and pulls her closer still, feeling Helen’s body pressing against hers. She is beginning to feel a sweet ache between her thighs. Helen’s kisses are only the start; Oenone will have Helen, push her down and force her to obey her every desire.</p><p>Oenone is breathing hard when she finally pulls back. Helen’s breathing remains even; aside from the slight dishevelment of her hair, she seems as calm and unmoved as a divine statue. Oenone will break that calm. She is looking forward to it. But those kisses were enough to prove that Helen will obey.</p><p>“Kneel down,” she says. Again, Helen drops obediently to the ground at her feet. A fierce thrill shoots through Oenone at the sight. “Remain there without moving until I return,” she orders. Helen dips her head in acquiescence.</p><p>Oenone leaves her kneeling there and goes into the hut to tend to Paris. She carefully cleans the wound, wiping away the traces of poison, and smears it with ointments that only she knows how to make. She sings charms over the wound until she sees that the poison is retreating and his skin feels less hot under her searching fingers.</p><p>One such treatment is not enough to cure him. He is not dying, but he will not recover without more help. Still, she can safely leave him now for a few hours and give her attention to Helen.</p><p>Helen is kneeling obediently where she left her. Oenone grabs her hair again, twisting it around her hand tightly until Helen’s eyes water. And then she pushes down with her greater strength, kneeling behind Helen and pushing her down until Helen’s face is in the dust and her fine robe is soiled with dirt. Oenone straddles Helen and sits on her, trapping Helen there between her thighs with her hand on the back of Helen’s head, while Helen whimpers quietly and beats her small hands helplessly against the ground.</p><p>Oenone likes it, having Helen’s warm soft body beneath her. But there are things she will like even more. She glances around and finds a patch of sun-warmed grass beside a slender poplar tree. That should do well enough. She will not take Helen into her hut or let her lie in Oenone’s bed, where Paris once lay.</p><p>She sits back on her heels and lets Helen sit up. Helen no longer looks like a perfect painted statue; her rouge is smeared and her face streaked with dirt.</p><p>“Strip,” Oenone demands.</p><p>Helen glances at her hesitantly and then obeys, slowly. She unfastens the golden brooches pinning her robe in place, unties her embroidered girdle. “Leave your jewelry on,” Oenone decides when Helen reaches for the clasp of her necklace. Then, when Helen’s clothing is in a heap on the ground: “Stand up and let me look at you. Turn around, slowly.”</p><p>And then Helen the beautiful is bare before her, clad only in her jewels. Somehow, the bits of slender gold only make her seem more naked. She turns around in place, letting Oenone feast her eyes on the curve of her buttocks, her lovely breasts, her red mouth. And Oenone will have her, every bit of her.</p><p>“Kneel,” Oenone commands again. Helen obeys. Oenone likes it all the more, having Helen kneeling naked before her while she herself is still fully clothed.</p><p>Oenone can see the beads of sweat forming in the hollow of Helen’s throat just below where her necklace rests. She wants to taste them, and so she does, dropping down beside Helen and leaning over her to lick at her skin. It only makes her want to taste even more. Leaning closer, she sucks at the skin of Helen’s shoulder. Suddenly, she bites down hard. Helen cries out and flinches away.</p><p>Oenone looks with pleasure at the mark her teeth left in Helen’s skin. Helen is trying to edge away from her, still on her knees; that cannot be permitted. Oenone seizes Helen and pins her wrists together, holding them in place with one hand. She snatches up Helen’s discarded girdle. It is the work of a moment to tie her hands together. As Helen looks up at her in fear, she drags Helen along the ground by her bound wrists to the young poplar tree and ties the ends of the girdle to that too, leaving Helen’s wrists tied to the tree.</p><p>Helen’s body is stretched out before Oenone, and she abandons restraint. She pushes Helen down under her and takes her mouth in a rough kiss. Next she nips at Helen’s throat and shoulders, feeling Helen shudder and jerk at the pain.</p><p>Oenone touches and tastes Helen everywhere, licking and sucking and biting wherever she wishes, as Helen cries out and squirms deliciously under her. She takes hold of the plump mounds of Helen’s buttocks, hard enough to bruise, and grips and squeezes them as much as she likes. When she traces her fingers possessively along Helen’s inner thighs, Helen gasps and jerks as if she’s ticklish there. Oenone pinches and tweaks the sensitive skin until it’s littered with red marks.</p><p>Helen’s lovely breasts are rising and falling, her breath heaving as she tries to hold back her sobs. Oenone takes Helen’s breasts in her hands, strokes her thumbs over the soft skin. She tightens her hold, gripping them painfully tight. Helen cries out and tries to pull away. Oenone clamps Helen’s body between her thighs—oh, she likes having Helen held there, writhing and pressing—and returns to her exploration of Helen’s breasts. She strokes over the soft skin again, then takes one nipple between her fingers and twists it. Helen is openly crying now, unable to hold back her tears; Oenone is darkly pleased at the mess it has made of her cosmetics. She pinches and twists at Helen’s nipple until it is pink and sore, then does the same to the other.</p><p>Oenone can feel herself growing wet, a pleasurable warm ache between her legs. She straddles Helen’s thigh and lies down with the softness of Helen’s body pinned under her. Oenone slowly rocks back and forth, grinding her clothed body against Helen’s naked skin. She takes her time, knowing that Helen has no choice but to let Oenone use her body this way. Helen’s bare skin so close is a living temptation. Oenone runs her fingertips over Helen’s sides, her thighs, the soft swell of her breasts. Oenone presses her face against Helen’s neck again, nuzzling at it and breathing in Helen’s scent; the rich flavors of her perfume, now mixed with sweat and dust. Oenone tongues and sucks at Helen’s neck, leaving purple marks all over. Let everyone who sees Helen know exactly what she has done to save her lover’s life.</p><p>She can’t resist biting again, adding those marks as well. Helen’s lips are parted, her face twisted in pain. Oenone bites at Helen’s red lips a few times, then holds Helen’s face between her hands and forces her into a lingering kiss. When Oenone draws back, she pushes two of her fingers into Helen’s mouth instead.</p><p>“Suck on them,” she commands. “Show me what you can do with your mouth.”</p><p>Helen does not dare to disobey; she sucks delicately at Oenone’s fingers, caressing them with her hot wet tongue. Oenone sighs in satisfaction and grinds harder against Helen’s unwillingly yielding body. She lets Helen lick and suck her fingers for some time, but Helen is beginning to relax again. Oenone must remind her who is master.</p><p>She thrusts her fingers deeper into Helen’s throat, feeling Helen choke and gag around them. It is deeply pleasurable, feeling Helen’s throat spasm around her fingers, the small noises Helen makes as she desperately tries to swallow, the way Helen arches and twists under her. Oenone can feel herself become sticky and wet where her thighs meet, and a hot pulse of pleasure is growing in her clit.</p><p>She finally pulls out her fingers and lets Helen go. Helen gulps in air with shuddering breaths, tears streaming from her eyes. Oenone wipes her wet fingers on Helen’s cheek, smearing her cosmetics still more.</p><p>“Please,” Helen manages between sobs. Her voice is raspy and hoarse. “Please don’t, I can’t—”</p><p>Oenone slides her thumb across Helen’s red lips. “Very well,” she says. “I won’t put my fingers in your throat again, if you are good and obedient and please me well.”</p><p>Helen nods with pathetic eagerness. “Please, I’ll do anything you like, please.”</p><p>Oenone tucks her own robes up around her waist and kneels over Helen’s mouth. “Then do it.” She lowers herself just a little, and then Helen’s mouth is rising to meet her wet cunt in an obscene kiss.</p><p>Oenone gasps and presses down against Helen’s mouth. Helen’s tongue licks along the opening of her cunt, sliding into her, caressing her again and again. It’s good, deliciously sweet, and Oenone moves her hips to get more of it. Helen mouths at her clit, sliding her tongue over it. Oenone watches her, seeing Helen’s red lips move as she services her.</p><p>Oenone throws back her head and moans loudly, unabashedly enjoying herself. Her cunt is hot and wet and dripping as Helen’s tongue and lips move against her. She rocks into it, as pleasure builds and builds, as every suck and swipe of Helen’s tongue sends hot sparks through her. And Helen, forced to be the obedient slave of her pleasure—Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world, submitting herself to Oenone’s will. Oenone draws the moment out as long as she can, until it feels like flying, suspended on the edge of pleasure. She moans again as Helen’s tongue slides just in the right place and thrusts—and she comes with a breathy gasp, jerking and grinding against Helen’s face.</p><p>She sits back on Helen’s chest while she recovers her breath, while the aftershocks of pleasure run through her. Helen’s face is slick and shiny with the wetness from Oenone’s cunt. She looks messy, disheveled, ruined. Oenone takes a lazy pleasure in seeing her like this.</p><p>She rubs her finger over Helen’s lips again, smearing the slickness around. Perhaps she can find yet another use for Helen’s mouth. She gets up and goes inside her hut. Her mortar and pestle rests on a table. The pestle is made of a hard black stone, smooth and polished. She uses it to grind herbs, though it is clean at the moment. Oenone picks up the pestle and slides her thumb thoughtfully along its thicker rounded end.</p><p>Helen is still sprawled on the ground, her head thrown back and her hair in disarray, her hands stretched above her head and her wrists tied to the poplar tree. She is wearing nothing but her gold jewelry, her skin marked with bruises and the marks of Oenone’s teeth. Oenone’s cunt clenches pleasantly at the sight.</p><p>Oenone kneels by Helen’s head. “You’ve done well,” she says condescendingly. “Now I have something else for you to do.” She holds the thick end of the pestle to Helen’s lips.</p><p>Helen’s eyes widen with fear. “No,” she says desperately. “You promised you wouldn’t.”</p><p>“I said I wouldn’t choke you with my fingers,” Oenone points out. “This is a pestle, not my fingers. Now suck on it.”</p><p>With a look of despair, Helen takes the end of the pestle in her mouth and begins to suck on it, caressing it with her lips and tongue.</p><p>Oenone begins to thrust slowly, each time pushing it a little deeper into Helen’s throat. Helen’s throat bobs as she swallows around it, her lips distended around the thick object. She can’t help choking a little. Oenone pushes it in more.</p><p>Helen whimpers frantically, her body twisting and her pleading eyes fixed on Oenone. Oenone holds it in place a moment longer, then takes mercy on her and pulls it out.</p><p>Helen is crying too hard to speak clearly, but she whimpers out broken syllables that sound like “no” and “please.”</p><p>“Oh?” Oenone says. “You don’t want this in your throat? Then where do you want it? Do you want it between your legs?”</p><p>Helen frantically shakes her head. Oenone moves the stone pestle back to her lips again.</p><p>“No,” Helen pleads again. “Please, please don’t—”</p><p>“Then you want it in your cunt? Tell me where you want it.”</p><p>Helen lowers her eyes defeatedly. “Please,” she says, her voice hoarse and strained from Oenone’s abuse of her throat. “Please put it in my cunt.”</p><p>Oenone moves the pestle down between Helen’s legs. “Spread your legs for me, nice and wide.”</p><p>With a look of despair on her face, Helen spreads her legs open as far as she can, tilting her pelvis up as if in wanton invitation. Oenone sets the thicker end of the pestle against Helen’s cunt and jabs it in with a hard motion. Helen cries out in pain. She tries to twist away involuntarily, and her wrists strain against her bonds. Oenone keeps pushing the pestle in steadily, forcing Helen’s cunt open to receive it, until it almost disappears inside Helen’s body. Helen’s breath comes in quiet sobs. Her hips keep making small involuntary movements, trying to find a less painful position with the thick stone pestle inside her. Oenone can see where the opening of her cunt is stretched wide around it.</p><p>The sight is making Oenone wet again. She rucks up her own robes and lies down on top of Helen, pressing her down to the ground. She grips one of Helen’s smooth thighs tightly between her own thighs; a shiver runs through her at the sweet pressure.</p><p>Helen’s breasts are a comfortable cushion to lie on; Oenone makes a satisfied sound low in her throat at the way they are squashed up against her. Helen’s body is stretched under her, pinned under Oenone from neck to hips. Oenone takes hold of the pestle and begins to move it, thrusting it in and out of Helen’s cunt.</p><p>Oenone thrusts the pestle into her roughly, not heeding Helen’s cries of pain. The hard stone must be bruising her inside; it is thick and long, and Oenone makes her take it, over and over again. Every time Helen bucks up against her, her thigh slides and presses deliciously against Oenone’s cunt, making her wetter and wetter. Oenone holds Helen down while she struggles, fucks her with the pestle, and grinds and rubs her dripping cunt against Helen’s thigh. Her pleasure is building again, running through her like fire. Oenone moans as she comes closer to the edge. She grabs Helen’s chin with her left hand and pulls her into a rough kiss, taking Helen’s mouth, thrusting her tongue into Helen’s mouth again and again as she thrusts into her with the pestle. Her cry of pleasure is muffled against Helen’s lips.</p><p>Oenone lies there for a few moments in the afterglow, feeling Helen’s sobbing breaths under her. At last she gets up and stretches. Her entire body feels warm and satisfied. She straightens her robe and lingers for a moment looking at Helen. Helen is a mess: thoroughly marked and debauched, her cunt still stretched wide around the stone pestle.</p><p>Helen’s face is wet with tears. “Please, Oenone,” she says in a choked voice. “Please take it out.”</p><p>Oenone pauses as if considering it. A tear trickles down Helen’s face. “Please,” she sobs. “Please, it hurts.”</p><p>Oenone turns and walks away from her, ignoring Helen’s calls after her. Let Helen hold the pestle between her legs all night, let her lie in the open air with nothing to cover her shame.</p><p>Oenone reenters her hut. She checks on Paris; he is unconscious, but breathing more easily. She changes his bandages, smearing more of her ointment on the wound. After all, Helen has been holding up her end of the bargain.</p><p>A dark voice whispers in her mind: she could take what she wants from Helen and still let Paris die. Has Paris deserved that she should heal him? Should Helen go happily back to Troy with her lover? But that is something to decide over the next few days. For now, Helen is at her mercy; no one will come to look for her until the three days are over, and Helen’s sweet body is hers to do with as she pleases.</p>
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